


might as well try to have some fun

by lipwigvonmoist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical The Spiral Content (The Magnus Archives), Other, Self-Discovery, Self-Indulgent, basically an excuse for me to talk about Helen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipwigvonmoist/pseuds/lipwigvonmoist
Summary: " This current… emotion, the state the Distortion had found herself in, had an air of familiarity about it, too. Helen Richardson had definitely experienced it before. Michael Shelley, blurry and faint as his memories were, had felt a similar way. The Distortion herself was not so sure. She had led a long and convoluted existence; who is to say what was and what wasn’t? She had only been forced to accept a human shape, to wear a human face for that many years; she had only been Helen for that long. Perhaps it was something that came with the territory. It was worth investigating nonetheless. "Helen, the Distortion, attempts to understand her feelings. It might just be that she is simply hungry.(Extremely self-indulgent Helen loveposting. The OC is barely there, so feel free to project <3)
Relationships: Helen Richardson (The Magnus Archives)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	might as well try to have some fun

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in like, September, but then MAG 187 dropped, and I was like, oh :pensive: Found it in my drafts the other day and decided it wasn't too bad - plus, I still love Helen <3 Hope you enjoy it!

Despite being the living embodiment of deception, sometimes the Distortion had to be acutely honest with herself. It was an impossible feat for someone entirely made of contradictions, but “impossible” was just a concept - one she could easily twist and turn around. She managed. One who contorts the truth has to know it first, after all; one who twists the facts has to have the facts to twist. 

This particular fact was squirming, turning inside of her, aching in her fingertips and sparkling in her eyes. It was exhilarating. It tingled in the curls of her hair, it begged to be expressed and to be let out, it had to take hold of a shape and a form and to be real, realised, open, perceived. It was the following: Helen was feeling something special.

Emotions, such as they were, were not at all uncommon for the Distortion. It felt maddening hunger as she refused to take, to kill, at first. She felt crushing guilt as it disrupted, destroyed, and drove people crazy. They felt satisfaction, joy, as the fear sustained them, filled them, made them alive in a way it knew but she had never experienced before. They felt giddy as they were a singular she, reconciled in her differences, full of power and fear and joy and confusion. 

The change was quite pleasant. Some of the more human feelings quickly became defunct. She had no need for remorse, no need for shame, regret. Was Helen Richardson compassionate once, kind and disgustingly human? Or was she vicious and unpleasant, caring not for others, grossly human again? The memories could all flow back in a snap of a finger. She did not really want them to.

There must have been something good in her, she thought, as a man whose name she did not care to learn sobbed under her gaze, too captivated by the shifting patterns to run away. That must have been why her heart (or what went for it these days) still ached when he finally stopped. That could have been why she still met his death with a smile. What was a lie to her own self, and what was it her true nature? Helen was not sure. The familiar feeling of confusion was the only thing she had confidence in.

This current… emotion, the state the Distortion had found herself in, had an air of familiarity about it, too. Helen Richardson had definitely experienced it before. Michael Shelley, blurry and faint as his memories were, had felt a similar way. The Distortion herself was not so sure. She had led a long and convoluted existence; who is to say what was and what wasn’t? She had only been forced to accept a human shape, to wear a human face for that many years; she had only been Helen for that long. Perhaps it was something that came with the territory. It was worth investigating nonetheless. 

And so the creature that called herself Helen walked along the corridors with a faint curiosity in her step. It was her own domain as much as it was her, but she still enjoyed wandering around - a turn here, a door there, an up or a down or a left or a right, and she would discover in a new, unfamiliar corner of her being. That was another thing she chose not to remember - it was simply more exciting. 

Helen had redecorated. Now the hallways were prim and proper, almost sterile at times; a different shade of creepy from its last iteration. Her past self would have been proud to show off a place like that; any potential buyer would admire the design choices. Sometimes they still did. Come to think of it, a poor soul or two has been hiding somewhere. No being could actually conceal where they were inside of the Distortion - but giving them hope, letting them think they could run away was just another fun little pastime. Losing their sanity, sense of direction in rooms that looked exactly the same, they were simply allowed to be, to wallow in their own fear and confusion, just in case Helen needed a snack. 

She sighed softly. Maybe she was just hungry again. It was something the Distortion had to deal with quite regularly; perhaps she could pay a visit to one of the current residents and find out if that theory held up. Her subconscious must have been on it - the corridors were leading her the right way. Now that she was aware of it, she even knew who was waiting at the end. Colourful hair, confused eyes, identity issues… The person reminded Helen of herself, in a way. It would be quite sad to devour them - but there was little else the Distortion could do. In any case, it was only a matter of turning to the right, and then...

Flowers. Now that was a surprising sight. There was a bouquet, which Helen was sure was not there before. The shades of red were rather lovely, though; roses, among other flowers, curving and twisting, ribbon-like, with an occasional twig of needles, sharp and exciting to look at. Helen’s eyes wandered along the patterns; the petals shifted and turned under her gaze, seemingly alive as she reached out. 

Now that was intriguing. Was somebody trying to appease her? How would that even be possible? Her doors were only open for herself; nobody else could walk in or out without her permission. Definitely not one of her pet projects. Or was it simply a new decoration? She paused for a moment, listening to her senses. That new feeling, both somewhere deep inside her and radiating through her skin, was present still. The question remained unanswered. Helen should really have been used to it by now; soon, the Distortion would be. At the moment, though, she followed the invisible thread of what seemed like her own psyche, absentmindedly taking the bouquet with her.

The hallways reflected Helen’s mood when she’d allowed them to. She traced a finger along the now pleasantly pastel wall, following a newly grown pattern, and giggled at the sensation. This was something the Distortion could never get tired of. The corridors felt fuzzy, warm; she felt well-lit and spacious. She sensed the air-conditioning working at just the right temperature. She understood the fresh coat of paint, amiable colours and patterns that barely clashed. She savoured the curtains, rustling gently in the breeze. She had the paintings on the walls smiling. Even the carpet was nice and clean - something that was oddly rare, due to all the blood, tears, and other unpleasant fluids spilled by the unwilling guests. The faintly human figure hummed a tune as she moved along.

There was something obvious in the way her surroundings changed, something she might have even been able to describe as “good”. She just had to guess what exactly it was.

One of the turns of the hallway had even offered her a mirror, unbroken; another oddity. The Distortion knew better not to look at herself for too long, not to stare into her own eyes, not to wonder what she might have looked like before and what exactly she was seeing now, but she still spared it an appraising glance. Her outfit seemed a bit out of place with the renewed interiors, and she fiddled with the colours and the materials until she was satisfied. Lace was a better look, surely; a stylish jacket thrown on top; a pair of pants she would have called official, were it not for the colour. It even matched the flowers, in a way. The Distortion left that corner with a twirl. 

Although her appearance hardly meant anything in the grand scheme of things, she was starting to come to terms with the nature of her current situation. If she were to be a creature of the twisting deceit, she might as well have twisted herself in a way she found enjoyable - new clothes and all. The Archivist really ought to start listening to her - the poor thing was always so sullen, so gloomy, worried about consequences and humanity and other empty chatter. No, Helen was starting to realise, the important thing was to enjoy herself as much as possible; giving in to the unfamiliar; giving in to the bizarre; giving in to the unavoidable. She might as well try to have some fun. 

And there was quite some fun to be had. Sure, those confusion sensations have been nagging at her for some time, but she could sense an upcoming resolve. She must have been craving a particular kind of fear; her palate was becoming accustomed to the notes and the nuances, the savour of deception and the after-taste of anguish. Some little part of Helen, deep inside, was still dreading the thought, but she had even started to develop  _ preferences _ . This must have been it. Well, it wasn’t like the Distortion to deny herself the simple pleasures of life. The person was just a couple of passages away; she sauntered on.

There is no need to pay close attention to the surroundings when  _ you  _ are the surroundings; so, when something had found its way on the floor, Helen did not notice it. Instead, she had just missed the thing, stepping over it at the very last moment. Clutter was not something she particularly expected, here; everything was tailored to her tastes, and the junkyard aesthetic was probably more of her predecessor’s thing. Still, the offending object appeared to be a bottle of some kind. It’s existence seemed to be more deliberate than simple chaos; it seemed both unopened and expensive. There was a point to it; a meaning, a message. She carefully picked it up. 

Wine. It was a bottle of wine. Well, that made just as much sense as anything. A gentle laugh echoed throughout the corridors, getting more and more distorted with every turn. She really was trying to tell herself something. 

It was a more exquisite kind of fear she was craving this time, that much was obvious. (Her hair shimmered and twisted into a neat pattern as the shapes on the walls decided to follow a less chaotic order.) Something she would have to work for; something that would be fun. (Her hands looked almost human.) Something mutual. (Her eyes had a magnetic charm about them; one could be lost in them for hours.) Something that would explain the warmth and the colours. (Her smile was irresistible.) Something that would be exciting to play with.

The Distortion was feeling rather romantic, and her possible date was just behind the door. She'd even brought them gifts.


End file.
